


mint green tangerine

by awakenthecity



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Airports, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Feelings Realization, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Kissing, George-centric, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Living Together, M/M, Making Out, Mild Language, Oblivious Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), One Shot, Roommates, kinda cringy but it gets better i think, mentions of the office, soft, we beta only after posting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28999128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awakenthecity/pseuds/awakenthecity
Summary: George smiles, refusing to contain his euphoria when Dream holds his face so gently, and hums breathlessly. “One more.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 825
Collections: MCYT, how tf do i find this, you've read this fucker :]





	mint green tangerine

On a snowy evening in the middle of December, three hours past some midnight stream, George arrives at the conclusion that he’s in love with his best friend.

Unlike all other life-changing realizations, to which he usually responds with passive disinterest, this one makes the laugh that had been boiling in his chest die down to a simmer, his walls reduced to cookie crumbs.

The culprit behind this new development sits 4342 miles across the Atlantic and probably working the living daylights out of himself, being the workaholic he is: Dream, his best friend, his partner in crime and admittedly, his soulmate.

It all comes to George when they’re fooling around in Minecraft (but of course it had to be in the block game), their avatars getting a little too close for comfort, causing the hairs on his arms to raise as though a phantom had brushed up against him.

And Dream always calls his name so _lightheartedly,_ in a way that makes him feel _so special_. The sound in George’s headphones sets ablaze the peripheries of his body and sparks a sticky fire deep within his bone marrow — it burns him alive. He’s never felt like this before and it scares him.

In the midst of his breathless confusion, he wonders if Dream would be warm to the touch or if his skin would be cool like his own. How would it feel to physically _reach_ for the other and make contact? Would there be cheesy static sparks? And if he holds on for a second too long, would he feel his pulse underneath his skin?

Sometimes, he lets his mind run amok, wondering about being able to run his fingers through Dream’s hair or trace little circles into the backs of his hands. Who cares about kisses? All he needs is an extended hug from Dream as he runs his mouth off about something stupid, letting George learn more about the uninhibited parts of him.

Dream makes it so easy for George to fall in love with him. The things he says, the familiar (and possibly flirtatious) tone that he uses exclusively on George when trying to get him on his side, the little smileys at the end of his messages when he asks for a favour — it’s all too much yet not enough at the same time.

George thinks about how much of their friendship is beginning to cross into new territories, and for how long, and how he hasn’t noticed until now. 

Sometimes, the two of them would be sitting in a recording. Photoshop is pulled up in fullscreen on George’s monitor while Dream spectates through the stream, perking up when something doesn’t look quite right. George offers a brilliant solution. They edit accordingly. The thumbnail is complete and progress is so delectable.

Dream, caught in his little bubble of joy, quips, “you’re a genius, marry me!” George laughs out of habit, trying to ignore the red persisting on his cheeks because this guy _has to know_ what evil he’s doing. He knows that Dream’s only joking but he can’t help but entertain the hypothetical.

On podcasts, George often finds himself stumbling over his words -- or lack thereof -- and habitually glances at the discord chat to find anything of value. He braces himself for deafening silence but it doesn’t hit because Dream comes in clutch and answers for him. 

_A soft-spoken voice guiding him through the headphones, little taps at the keyboards bypassing the input threshold coming off more endearing than they need to be, the shuffling of his body -- alive and beating -- that the mic somehow manages to pick up; it’s all so cruel._

He’s absolutely livid. 

It’s well past midnight, closer to morning actually, and they’ve just finished recording a video. The ache of a burnout caused by an entire day of running codes, testing mods, and talking non-stop has never been a rewarding feeling. 

Yet despite the soreness running up their necks and the bitter eyestrain, Dream and George manage to settle into a comfortable rhythm in the call, talking aimlessly about life and the future, things like where they see themselves five, ten years from now. Someone brings up aging and the conversation turns a little bittersweet:

“Even when we’re seventy, you honestly think we’re still gonna be making videos together?” George asks, half asleep, the only thing keeping him awake is the rising sun beyond his curtains.

Without hesitation, Dream says, “Oh, of course. YouTube culture is the future. We’ll be wrinkly like prunes but you know I’ll still pull you and Sapnap together to make shit.”

George admires his confidence, then adds, “Minecraft but Elders React?”

_It isn’t really funny_ , but Dream’s laughter comes coursing through the mic, breaking off as it does when he laughs a little too loud. The sound is contagious, bringing a crinkle to his eyes as he giggles as well, content that he got the other to laugh at least once today. It makes him a happier person.

“So anyway, I’ve been thinking.” Dream starts.

“That’s new.”

Ignoring him, he continues the thought. “I honestly believe that even if we grow out of Minecraft and gaming, we’re still gonna stick together. We are best friends before a team -- me, you, and Sapnap. Karl and Quackity, too. We’re going to ride off into the sunset gloriously like they do in those indie equestrian movies. Horses and all.” 

Dream’s voice is soft, laced with nostalgia and pride.

In moments like this, George might quip sarcastically or scoff, making Dream ever so aware of his ego, but now with the dawn light streaking in between the curtains, the LED panel glowing, and his dog gently snoring as she splays across the foot of the bed, he softens. Without notice, the thought comes slipping out of his mouth:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

George mentally slaps himself on both cheeks. _That definitely was NOT how you say “any askers”._ All he hears is the sound of his own breathing. _(_ _Meteor showers, fireworks, and pop rocks. Burning lava, acid reflux, wading. Underwater.)_ Blood pumping, rushing through his ears like static. He feels like drowning.

The green ring blinking around Dream’s discord icon has suddenly become the cynosure of his eye as he burns his gaze onto the screen, tentatively waiting for a reaction, a sound, _anything_.

“You cut out there, George.”

George bites his lip. “Huh, did you say something?”

“Oh, not really.” Dream’s tone is indecipherable.

It’s times like this that he really wishes he could cease to exist. All he could feel is below-zero dread washing over his bones, creeping up anxiously from the depths of his guts and quickly settling into his blood. His heart drops down to his ankles.

Ping: 12ms. _Decent? Perhaps he_ _didn’t hear?_

He hates not having an answer.

The anxiety eats away at him faster than anything he’s ever experienced and he shifts quietly in his chair. His words of confession suddenly replay in his own ears, leaving his mouth drier than cotton. If ear-worms could rave, they sure are now.

Dream pops open his water-bottle. “Yeah, there wasn’t much I wanted to tell you. So I guess, meeting adjourned?”

_He didn’t hear._

“Meeting adjourned.” George echoes. 

“Yeah, I’ll text you later.”

Dream leaves the call. George is alone.

He wants to dig himself ten feet underground. The discord background stares back at him blankly and if it could, it would be laughing at him. After logging off, George gets up from his chair and free-falls onto his bed, burying his face into the mattress.

\-- 

Weeks easily pass by and they’re halfway into January. Thankfully, the giant queue of holiday-related content had left virtually no room for any other thoughts as George finds himself occupied with work. In some ways, he enjoys being married to the grind because it takes his mind off some things.

As for other developments, Sapnap and Dream have finished moving into their trial bachelor pad. From time to time, they send him pictures of breakfast on the patio or the view of the beach at night, jokingly rubbing it in his face to tease him. 

Of course, George tries not to think too much about it (he, too, will be there in due time) but he’s impatient and a bit jealous. But Sapnap is kind enough to be conservative with his teasing, being just as excited as George for the day that the travel restrictions are down.

“If you end up being taller than Sapnap, he will actually cry.”

“No shot. There’s absolutely no way.”

“Me being taller or the crying part?” George pokes.

And then Sapnap responds with something so vulgar it cannot be morally transcripted, to which George scoffs. Dream’s there as well, his whistle-laugh resounding through Sapnap’s mic. 

Soon. Soon he will have that, too.

  
  


\--

  
  


_Dream: check your email :)_

George stares at the plane ticket sitting in his inbox. _It’s here,_ he thinks, _it’s finally here!_ He hops around his room and does a dance in the middle of the room. In this sleep-deprived, mildly anaemic state, his vision-blinding excitement almost knocks him out cold over his suitcase.

Reaching for his keyboard, he shakily types into chat but Dream is already one step ahead of him, reading his mind like he always does.

_Dream: and yes, you can post it on twitter lol_

_Dream: i can’t wait to see you_

  
  
  


\--

  
  


George finds himself buzzing with excitement. He hasn’t seen the airport in years and the sight of the taxis and people pulling up to the door with their suitcases makes him so nervous he almost throws up. On the call with him are Dream, Sapnap, Quackity, and Karl, their voices glitching in his earphones. They say three’s a crowd but five’s a party.

“Put those short little legs to use and run!” Quackity laughs hysterically, mixing in with Dream’s occasional, _you’re gonna miss the flight, George._ Their excitement is uncontained.

“I’m literally checking in right now!” He updates. 

“Okay and? The plane’s literally going to take off without you, fool.”

Sapnap’s voice comes in all pixelated. “Shut up, Quackity! I can’t hear him.”

“Then mute me, bitch.”

George is so nervous. Butterflies in his stomach flutter incessantly as he makes his way to the terminal, bags and wires falling every few seconds. He’s out of breath from constantly updating his location in the airport to the boys (he ignores all the side glances), a little bit light-headed because he slept three hours last night, a little bit sweaty from running. He’s stressed out but it’s a good kind of stress, the kind that feels like a burn after a good run or a boiling-hot shower.

When he walks to get in line, Dream texts him.

_Do you have everything?_

George sighs, glancing at the documentation in his hand. He types, “yes, I double-checked.”

_Nothing on the seats? Ticket + passport?_

_?Do you need me to check another time_

_Well,_ Dream types, _third time’s a charm?_

_.Dream, I’m literally in line rn_

_Oh lol._ _See you in a few hours then :) safe travels_

George smiles so wide, he doesn’t give one flying fuck if the gate agent is severely judging him. With the others, he goes down the long tube, its grey surfaces drowned in fluorescent light.

It’s finally happening, after months of waiting, their first meeting. As they wait for the plane to take off, he passes the time by rereading Dream’s texts like a lovestruck fool. Nothing else is worth mentioning at this point besides the beauty of departure as the plane swoops into flight and the city slips out of sight. George watches the rocky buildings morph into a flat plane of brown and green grids covered by swaths of candy coloured clouds. 

Hours later, the sky has become a darker, cosmic, and lucid shade. George vaguely remembers being startled out of his sleep at some turbulence, blanket slipping off his shoulders. Outside his window, the moon dances with the stars above the clouds, reminding him of the stars in Minecraft. It’s in this timeless moment that he lets out a little giggle, the excitement of exhaustion effervescing against his disbelief that this is reality.

When he arrives, he’s so giddy with anticipation he almost misses the first step off the plane. Different accents slip into his ears, different smells waver up his nose, and he finds himself swept up in a crowd of people leaving terminals. The only thing between him and his friends right now is luggage retrieval -- after that, it’s all up to his stomach to hold down any undigested content. 

He fights the curling of his lips as he turns the corner, the butterflies almost becoming too much to bear.

People are huddled around the gates, families flying into each other’s arms, people rushing to the taxis. How on earth would he be able to find anybody in this state?

Then, by some witchcraft, he spots _him_.

He’s wearing a stupidly cliche green hoodie, blond hair swept out of his face, and smile so wide.

“George!” Dream’s calling him, standing almost a whole head above everyone else and still trying to jump and down to get his attention. Like this, he looks like an overgrown puppy.

His guard immediately goes up and drops down all at the same time, feeling like the luckiest person yet synchronously wanting to run and hide. The escalator closes most of the distance between them and Dream covers the rest in long strides, arms open with invitation. Bags are falling everywhere as they crash into each other in a tight embrace.

Dream laughs next to the shell of George’s ear. This feels like home.

Their hug is brief, endless, suffocating and relieving all at once. And maybe that’s what their relationship feels like all the time, teeter-tottering between polar ends. George doesn’t mind though and relishes the compression. It’s almost embarrassing how perfect the hug feels.

Still holding on, he pulls back to look George up and down. “Sapnap’s gonna get a kick out of this. You _are_ shorter than him!”

George scoffs exasperatedly. “And _that’s_ the first thing you say to me?”

Dream laughs. “It’s good to see you, George.”

Suddenly unable to make eye contact, George’s eyes settle on the bridge of Dream’s nose. He ignores how close they are, faces a mere foot apart, arms hooking onto each other even though there’s so much room around them.

Dream looks away and chuckles awkwardly. “Maybe say it back?”

“No.” George pulls away, hands moving from Dream’s shoulders back onto the handle of his suitcase.

Dream pretends to be hurt. “I’m tweeting about this. GeorgeNotFound is actually a bully.”

“Followed by hashtag dreamisaliar trending. Now hurry and get us out of here before people start noticing.”

George finds a temporary home in their banter, something familiar in this foreign country.

“Chill, we’re literally parked out front. It’ll only take a minute,” Dream says as he lightly taps his arm, unabashedly holding him softly by the elbow as he guides him out of the airport. 

As they navigate through the hoards of people, George vividly notes how touchy Dream is. His hand only leaves his side when they pull up to the sound of Sapnap blasting 21 Savage in the car.

It leaves his skin burning even after they get to the apartment.

Can he live with this?

\-- 

It’s been a few weeks since George moved in.

Living with his best friend co-creators in a suburban bachelor pad is in fact one of the best ideas they have ever had. Though, the pigsty issue in the kitchen needs urgent resolving, and there needs to be more than just eggs, milk, and juice in the fridge.

On movie nights spent marathoning The Office, the three of them pile onto the L shaped couch with George squashed in the middle, holding the plate of fruit and chips in his lap. Ten episodes in and George fights the sleep demon, his eyelids threatening to close on Dwight and his Schrute Farm barn. In his subconscious mind, he debates jolting himself awake to wash up. But the fleece throw is so comfortable and his bones are sinking further into the couch cushions. 

Before he has the chance to fully fall asleep, a warm limb wraps around his shoulders and pulls him to lie down, the weight of his arm pressing him down on the body below him.

He doesn’t make the effort to look up and see who it is, because he already knows from the cologne that’s mostly just faint now.  
  


Is it Dwight Schrute’s heavenly voice or is it the drowsiness hypnotizing him? George will never really know what causes him to, although unsurely at first, physically snuggle his head under Dream’s chin. Dream hums -- quiet and low -- in response, the sound like a muffled bass note caged within his ribs. 

Some part of him knows they’re treading into dangerous territory with consequences that George, when awake, would be a coward to face. Some parts convince him that this is what they call platonic snuggling, something that is bro-approved. But then other parts want to call this romantic development. Unable to make up his mind, George stares off into the distance as he listens to Dream’s even breathing.

A palm presses against his cheek. It’s warm. “Something wrong?”

He looks up at Dream who asks the question, seemingly unphased by the way that they’re straight-up cuddling. _No, there’s nothing wrong, just these butterflies that won’t go away._

“What time is it?”

“Uh, probably five.” 

Neither has an incentive to move so they lie there, Dream subconsciously running his hand through his hair. The action is so small, so friendly, but it sets off a wildfire in all the cells in George’s body. He pokes the other’s neck with his nose and tucks his hand under Dream’s hood. He supposes Dream _has_ to know. There’s no way he doesn’t know. How obvious can it get that he’s completely enamoured?

“Hey, are you mad at me?” Dream asks, out of the blue.

The question startles George, who raises an eyebrow in confusion. “No, why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, you’ve been quiet today. Are you tired?” Dream stumbles over his words, voice higher than usual. “Did I say something wrong?”

George almost laughs if it isn’t for the butterflies gathering in his larynx, the mushy thoughts turning his mind to goo. Dream _had_ forgotten to put the juice back in the fridge yesterday, and George _had_ meant to pick a bone with him about it (because juice) but then Dream then made him a nice snack, which was one of the _nicest_ things anyone could do for him.

“Dream,” he starts, cautiously.

“Yeah?” Dream waits, expecting him to carry on.

“Did you actually hear what I said a couple of months ago?”

Dream opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

“Sorry, that was too vague. It was kinda something important. You said my mic cut out or something.” George says, feeling incredibly scared but at the same time unexplainably brave. Dream is his _best friend_. 

“It,” he begins, “had something to do with this.” He brings his hand up to cup Dream’s face, to which the other presses his own hand over top. His brows are furrowed in furious recollection as he tries to figure out what _this_ could possibly be.

“It also has something to do with the fact that I’m wearing your hoodie right now.”

“You... want to model for my merch?”

“Dream, no.” George’s eyes flit down to Dream’s parted lips and back up to his marsh-green irises, so close he sees the reflection of the Netflix logo in them. “I may have said I was in love with you?”

George almost feels like throwing himself off a cliff when Dream’s eyes widen, brows raising past his fringe as he processes the information. Then, Dream is smiling so _breathtakingly_ (quite literally) from ear to ear, his eyes crinkling into crescents as he laughs quietly.

“Can’t you believe you beat me to it,” he starts. “I’ll admit I really don’t remember hearing you say that, but at least now I don’t feel so bad about wanting to do this.”

There’s no warning, no time for a man to catch his breath, no preparation before George finds Dream kissing him, his warm lips pressed against his own. 

George knows what it’s like to be kissed -- he’s been kissed and has kissed others before. He’s had different types of first, second, or third kisses with different kinds of people. None of them can compare, not even in the slightest, to this one. _Not a single one of them._ And he’s so convinced that _this one_ is the one, that he could effortlessly write a novella on why firsts don’t mean a damn thing until you find the right one.

He learns that Dream tastes like mint green tangerine. 

Dream leads him through the kiss, flowers blossoming and birds singing every time their lips touch. The other boy hums, the sound ringing like a tuning fork striking upon a star, the sound reverberating excitedly. His hands wrap tighter around the seams of Dream’s hoodie to hold him closer.

When they pull apart, Dream’s pupils are probably just as blown out as his. He looks brilliant. All the butterflies that had been hidden for so long suddenly bubble out of his mouth into a giggle.

“Okay… okay,” George murmurs in an attempt to steady himself, voice trailing off. 

He wonders when they’d ever get the chance to do this again but Dream is already one step ahead of him as he leans down to peck him softly again -- once on the nose, then sweetly on the mouth. He kisses back, again, and again, and again -- too many to count. Some of them are brief and chaste while others are long and drawn out like a lingering piano chord. 

George smiles, refusing to contain his euphoria when Dream holds his face so gently and hums breathlessly. “One more.”

One more snowballs into _many_ more.

  
  


\--

  
  


“You’re up early,” George notes, shuffling into the kitchen to grab a drink but Sapnap is already there, frying eggs with a hand on his hip like a dad.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sapnap shoots back, whistling along to _Adore You_ on the radio.

“What do you mean?” Dream slides in right after George, Patches following closely behind. She perks up as Dream starts digging around in the cupboard with the kibble.

“Guys please,” says Sapnap, looking all too indifferent, bored almost, as he slides the eggs onto a plate.“I was literally awake.”

**Author's Note:**

> art block? that's alright. there is always writer arc.
> 
> i hope this doesn't feel too rushed or unnatural! you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/hyxmix)
> 
> [loosely inspired by tangerine by tim atlas](https://open.spotify.com/track/4qzAGRJuc6vOZ7Jsf2wA5W?si=DEeEXldBRSeSMLb-4Zixzw)


End file.
